


Winter's Quiet

by thejourneymaninn



Series: Change of season [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age - Various Authors, Dragon Age II
Genre: Fluff, Gifts, Lyriumchristmas, M/M, Unresolved Tension, decorations, pre-fenders - Freeform, the non-Christmassy version
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-02
Updated: 2016-12-02
Packaged: 2018-09-03 20:22:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8728843
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thejourneymaninn/pseuds/thejourneymaninn
Summary: On the evening of the Winter festivities, Anders visits Fenris in his mansion to give him his gift. 
Non-Chrismassy prompt fill for the lyriumchristmas campaign. Today’s prompt was ‘Decorations’.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Seeing as a lot of people (including, well, Thedas) don’t celebrate Christmas, I thought I’d also do a more neutral fill for today’s prompt (yes, I might be procrastinating). And since Satanalia has sort of become Thedas-Christmas, enjoy a randomly made-up holiday.

„Alright, that salve should do the trick. Just remember to use it three times a day, for a week.” He clapped the fidgeting woman on the back. “And now off with you. Your children are getting impatient, and I’d like to avoid another…incident.”

Getting shards of glass off the muddy Darktown ground was not a task for the impatient.

His patient slid of the cot with a grateful smile. “Thank you, Healer.”

Anders’ own smile faded when she reached into her pocket, retrieved a small fruit cake and held it out to him. “I told you, it’s a free clinic. I don’t accept coin from my patients. And yes, yes,” he waved impatiently as she made to speak, “I know this technically isn’t ‘coin’, but for someone who has to keep those four menaces over there fed, it might as well be.”

A cool, dry hand took hold of his, with a firmness that belied her wispy frame, and with equal firmness, she placed the cake on his palm. “It’s Winter’s Quiet, and you’ve healed all of us so many times, it feels like you’re part of the family. My wife would never forgive me if I didn’t honour the tradition. Eat it. You look as though you could use something sweet. We all need something to get us through the dark months, even you.” And with that, she ushered her children out of the room. His last patient, everyone else was already safe at home with their families.

He stared at the cake in his hand, another wave of sadness rolling in. They had come and gone all day, small ones, not enough to pull him under yet constantly lapping against his soul, eroding what little joy there had been to begin with. Winter’s Quiet always had that effect on him – the day you were supposed to spend with your family, your closest friends, lighting a fire, singing songs against the cold, gifting them with a piece of food a symbol of the need for supplies in the austere months to come. Except, of course, Kirkwall wasn’t all that cold. And all its months were austere. Ferelden, that’s what winter was supposed to be like… But it wasn’t home anymore, hadn’t been for a long time.

He had been living outside the Circle for over a decade now, and almost all of this time had been spent in Kirkwall. It didn’t matter that the feeling wasn’t there, for all intents and purposes, this was home. He had tried to honour the fact, as well as the occasion; he’d cleaned up as well as he could and even put up some of the customary decorations – garlands, a reminder there is joy even in the grimmest times; evergreens, a reminder that life persists; lanterns, a reminder to look for the light in the dark, and apples, a reminder that, if well protected, the fruits of warmth will nourish you through times of cold. It looked pretty. Insofar as any place in Darktown could be made to look pretty, at least.

Merrill had barely been able to conceal her excitement. “Oh, it’s lovely. We haven’t put up nearly as much in Hawke’s house; should there be more? Maybe I should go to the market and buy more. The Dalish don’t celebrate Winter’s Quiet. We have our own holidays, you know? Hawke said we should celebrate those too, all of us together. She’s so kind! She says she wants me to feel at home. You’ll come, won’t you?”

Which was how he had ended up with an invitation to join her for a Dalish celebration his clumsy tongue had not yet figured out how to pronounce, as well as one to join them this evening, to which he had given a noncommittal ‘perhaps’ he would not follow through on. He could do without being the third wheel, especially today.

Hawke had repeated the invitation when she had dropped by with Varric and Isabela soon after. For his patient’s thoughtful gesture hadn’t been his first gift; over the course of the day, most members of their little fr-amily had dropped by with the customary present and of course, he had given each of them something in return. An apple for Merrill, rum for Isabela, dwarven ale for Varric, Ferelden lager for Hawke – come to think of it, his friends had a slightly alarming proclivity for liquid nourishment. Starkhaven’s finest had, as usual, not bothered to show up, which was fine with Anders. He certainly didn’t have any particular desire to give him anything either. Unless a laxative counted…

So, he had given everyone their winter’s memento. The only thing that was left was the spiced wine he had gotten for Fenris. The way it stood there, taunting him from the dead centre of the now empty shelf, made his skull itch. Fenris had always dropped by to give him something, every year except for the first, when he hadn’t yet known of the custom and been as startled by people giving him food as Merrill. Even during the time when their fighting had been at its worst, he’d come. That he would choose _this_ all of all years not to…

The first time his clinic looked festive, and the bloody elf didn’t show. It probably wouldn’t have been to his taste anyway…although he did like apples. Most likely more in the sense of eating them than looking at them, but Anders wouldn’t have minded parting with a few. Perhaps he would still show. Or…perhaps Anders should go see him. After all, there were no rules that his friends had to come see _him_ ; it was just that somehow, all of them did. Which may or may not have had something to do with the fact that a busy clinic and the incessant pull of another voice in his mind didn’t exactly make him the most…reliable person. He counted himself lucky that after all those years, “why do I even bother to make plans with you” was still mostly said with fondness. Sometimes, even by Fenris. Who was going to get his wine, even if he had decided not to give him anything this year. Even if the thought stung. Anders wouldn’t have to stay long; he’d just drop off his gift and be back in his clinic in no time. Alone, yes, but with lights and food to keep him company.

 

 

The mansion lay quiet, no decorations, no light, only the faintest glow of the fire in the room Fenris usually chose to dwell in touching the stairs. Anders made his way up quietly, although he had little doubt the elf would hear him approaching anyway. His hunters might be dead, but the news hadn’t reached his senses yet. He was always alert, a tight coil of nerves and instinct lingering beneath the surface even during the rare moments when he allowed himself to relax. It had taken Anders a long time to understand that. Too long for someone who spent every second dreading the sight of Templar armour.

It seemed the others had already paid their visits; the table next to the door was filled with cake, wine, and ale, much like his own. His did not boast a whole roasted pig, however. No one cared about him _that_ much. Fenris was sitting at the far end of the room, a wooden arch holding five candles on the small table in front of him. When Anders stepped closer, he tore his gaze away from them, blinking as though he was waking from a dream.

Anders raised the bottle in greeting. “Sorry to barge in. I just wanted to bring you your gift. It’s spiced wine. I thought you might like it. And it’s also sort of a traditional thing for Winter’s Quiet – ‘spices to keep the spark in your blood during the long, dark months, and wine to keep you warm’.”

“I…Thank you. It -” He looked out the window, frowning, “ - is getting dark? I apologize. I forgot the time. I meant to bring you your gift sooner. Or, parts of it.”

An absurd amount of relief flooded Anders’ body. So Fenris had gotten him something after all. “It’s alright; I needed a little fresh air anyway. Doesn’t matter the occasion, Darktown always stinks. What do you mean, ‘parts of it’?”

Fenris gestured to the pig. “It is too heavy to carry in one piece. Perhaps I should have had it delivered, but from what I understand your traditions require giving it in person. I thought I should keep the larger share here, for Diamondback. You get hungry when you lose.”

“Oh. Yes. Thank you. You didn’t have to get me quite so much, though. It’s supposed to be symbolic…”

“It is. It symbolizes that you are disturbingly tall and require bewildering amounts of nourishment.”

“I can’t argue with that, I guess.” Anders placed the bottle on the table and was left standing there empty-handed, shuffling his feet and awkwardly fiddling with his coat. “So, ah, I see you’ve made a concession to decorating this year?”

It was quiet for a moment, the elf’s gaze dropping back to the candles. When he finally spoke, his voice was low. “Not…exactly. I saw this at a Lowtown stall yesterday, and there was a…flash. A memory. My mother, I think. No, I know. I cannot hold on to her picture, but I am certain it is her. She…had a candleholder much like this. I think she used to light the candles on a…special day. I cannot recall the name. There are only fleeting images. She...told us stories once the candles were lit. It feels…peaceful.” A shadow flittered across his face. “As peaceful as whatever holiday slaves celebrate is likely to be, at least

“You remember something.” Only afterwards did Anders realize he had been whispering.

Fenris nodded. “Never more than flashes. And not all of them remain. I cherish the ones that do.”

“Yes, of course you do. I’ll leave you to it, then. Memories of your family sound like the perfect gift for today…even if it’s not the holiday you used to celebrate.”

“I believe the spirit is the same. Stay mage,” Fenris raised his voice as Anders turned toward the door. “We can share the wine you brought with you.” His lips quirked upwards ever so slightly. “That is something a slave never gets to do, not even in celebration.”

“Are…are you sure?” Anders asked, hesitantly, even as he lowered himself into a chair and accepted the glass Fenris had poured him. “I’d understand if it felt like I’m intruding. Tradition aside, we are not exactly…family.”

“True.” Fenris’ gaze was oddly intent, steady on his own. “Yet in some ways, you have been closer to me than anyone else.”

For a moment, Anders dithered, stunned that Fenris had actually mentioned, however veiledly, “the thing they never talked about” and uncertain how to respond. “I have touched your body, Fenris. That…does not exactly mean I qualify as family replacement.” And, since he was apparently incapable of making it through a single conversation without ruining things with an insolent remark, he added, “Well, at least I hope it doesn’t…”

The elf’s gaze did not waver. “That is not all you have touched, mage.”

Anders’ heart did a strange little lurch. He blamed it on the wine. “Alright, if you really don’t mind…It’s not like I couldn’t use some company. I’ve put up a few decorations in the clinic but…it’s not really all that festive when you’re the only one there to enjoy them. A few candles and someone to share a drink with might be the better choice.”

Fenris nodded slowly. “You…could show me your clinic tomorrow. Tell me more about how you celebrate this day.”

Another lurch. “I…I could do that.”

The elf nodded again, and they fell quiet. Neither of them seemed to know what to say, which wasn’t all that surprising given how rarely they actually _talked_. The silence wasn’t exactly uncomfortable, but both of them kept fidgeting with their glasses, staring at nothing, and it didn’t take long before Anders couldn’t bear it anymore. “Do you want me to tell you a story? I doubt I’ll be as good at it as your mother but…I know a few that might fit the mood.”

“I would enjoy that.”

So Anders told him a story, and once he had finished, he told him another. And somehow, in the light of the small arch of candles, a glass of spiced wine in his hand and the elf whose lips tasted so sweet when they spent their wordless times together smiling at him from across the table, it just so happened that for the first time since they dragged him to the Circle, Anders experienced a feeling of “home” on Winters’ Quiet.


End file.
